


Check Mate

by DPS



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Angst, Chess Metaphors, Gen, Religious Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPS/pseuds/DPS
Summary: Quasimodo plays a game of chess with his Master; but is it only a game?





	

He sat across from me, a formidable presence within my personal sanctuary here, and while he was bodily above the common people he was below them in every other way; immoral despite his holy vows through his deceitful actions and treachery.

 

After our daily lesson, Master insisted that we play chess, as I had yet to win a match and therefore must continue to study the art of strategy and power. I nodded quietly to my Master while glancing at the ground. I watched a mouse scuttle by; I wondered what it would be like; to not only live in the shadows, but to move within shadows as mice do, uncaring that they are unwanted.

 

My Master interrupts my thoughts with a pointed stare. I shuddered at the thought of disobeying, and set up the simple wooden chess set quickly, only fumbling with a few pieces before the board was pristine, just as Master expected. I used the black pieces, and Master wielded the white pieces. He explained why to me once when I queried.

 

“The righteous and pure are always white, representing God’s grace and goodness. The sinful are black, and are in danger of losing their souls through their wickedness,” my Master said with a direful expression, reminding me of my uselessness, my depraved soul.

 

I simply nodded back. I had no reason to disagree, after all, Master is the one who saved me from my sinful mother and raised me like a son. He had told me this tale, many times.

 

“I know you only wish what is best for me, Master. I am sorry,” I supplicated.

 

As I watched, his eyes gleamed in their sunken depths with a secret. Perhaps of a time before I became so accustomed to cruelty towards deformed people like me.

 

_The gypsy woman is running, racing forward from her tormentor as she valiantly tries to save her precious cargo, bundled in a blanket against her chest. Her heart beats in time with the thundering of the horse behind her, its owner coming ever closer. Run. Run._

_Find a safe place._

_The gypsy belatedly wishes she had never come to Paris, never accepted the promise of refuge from the horrible actions done to her people in the countryside. Now she is hunted, by the man her people call “The Judge.”_

_Alas, it is too late, far too late for regrets._

_She begins to cry, tears freezing on her cheeks like the waters of the Seine as she rushes through the frigid city streets, a single thought rushing through her frenzied mind._

_Safe place. Safe place. Safe place._

_The distressed wanderer races into the Parisian square, and in her frantic searching glimpses Notre Dame. She flees; hands ice cold around her bundle as she nears the oaken doors of the massive Cathedral, tears flowing as she wails against the winter wind:_

_“SANCTUARY! Please, help us!”_

_Before she can utter the redemptive phrase again, the vicious Judge catches her, ripping the bundle from her arms while ignoring her gasping cry. He seizes her arm in his spindly grip and throws her down the stone steps of the Cathedral, disregarding the vicious snap of her neck in favor of viewing his prize._

_As the Judge peels away the threadbare covering, a startling cry arises from the depths. A baby…._

_“No, a monster” the Judge spits, viewing the baby’s deformed features and crooked spine with contempt, “I will put it out of its misery,” he resolves, nodding solemnly as he reaches for the creature’s fragile neck, curling one bony hand around it-_

_“ **Stop** , in the name of God!” The Judge hears, turning to look into the eyes of the Archbishop who watches him with a horrified expression adorning his weathered face. The holy man cradles the dead gypsy in his arms and pleads, “You have already stained these steps with innocent blood. No more. Redeem yourself in the eyes of God for this woman’s needless death.”_

_The Judge ponders this, looking into the cold eyes of the saints carved into stone above the great doorways of Notre Dame, those eyes watching his actions. Watching. Judging._

_“Very well,” the Judge acquiesces, “I will raise him. He will be brought up in the bell-tower, however no one must ever know.” The Archbishop nods with a sigh, turning to carry the dead woman into the cold sanctuary of the Cathedral, closing the great doors behind him with a hiss._

_The Judge turns on his horse to leave, glancing down at the baby. Perhaps he will be of use to me? The Judge ponders this, a sinister grin tugging at the corners of his mouth._

_Perhaps._

Master signaled that it was time for us to begin our chess match. We began to move the pieces. A pawn moved two spaces forward and a knight took a bishop. Calculated movements, each movement on the board gave me the false feeling of freedom, followed by the usual emptiness.

This choice to move a piece around a board was not freedom, it was another lesson given by my Master; a lesson about power, about who possessed power.

 

A pawn taken, then a rook and another pawn, over and over the cycle went. I had improved greatly, my skill improving through my self taught manner and my self education though books and my interaction with the church officials. The game went on, and despite my body growing weary, I wanted to prove my worth.

 

Finally, after the sun had set, I had an opportunity to take Master’s king into check using my left rook. His dark eyes watched me, calculating, assessing, and wondering.

 

I feigned ignorance, and moved my pawn forward instead.

 

He smiled at me, a sickening twist of his aged lips as he predictably moved his queen into place to steal my king, a final move.

 

“Perhaps you would be more successful, Quasimodo, if you strove to overcome your sinful origins. Where would you be without my care and tutelage?” He condescended, basking in his imminent victory.

 

“Check Mate.”

 

“Yes, Master.”

 

 

 


End file.
